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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128158">Rooted (Rootless)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotlessWanderer/pseuds/PlotlessWanderer'>PlotlessWanderer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Child Neglect, Child Winchesters, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Pre-Series, Protectiveness, Self sufficiency</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:28:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,897</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotlessWanderer/pseuds/PlotlessWanderer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Should he say thanks or something? That was what you were supposed to do, when someone stuck up for you. At least according to the movies and Alice. But both of those things weren’t really set in reality all the time, so…</p>
<p>He stared upwards, at the guys green eyes, the freckles interspersed with mild acne and a bruise peeking out from the hair by his ear. </p>
<p>The guy stared back. </p>
<p>(Sometimes help comes too late. Sometimes it doesn't come at all. But sometimes? Sometimes, help takes a left turn instead of right, stops in a town that it should have just driven through. And sometimes, its right on time.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Rooted (Rootless)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>TWs for child abuse and bullying.</p>
<p>So, disclaimer, I only watched the first season of the show. Standard procedure for me; give it a season before giving it a pass. I decided to give it a pass and re-watched the X Files instead :)</p>
<p>But one episode always stuck with me. It still sort of hovered in the back of my mind years and years later. So I went back and watched it again and it still struck me the same. This time it inspired me to write something. </p>
<p>I hope no one minds that I'm not super well versed in Supernatural. Please be gentle, and I hope you enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The park was a dull little two swing arrangement. A merry-go-round and a seesaw with no seats, a sand pit that had been emptied by the PTA moms in a fit of concern about cats or worms or something. A couple hedges. </p>
<p>	It sat directly across the street from an old cemetery. Lots of leaning, chipped headstones and the stumps of long broken wooden crosses. From the swing you could see right over the fence. </p>
<p>	Max swung slow, toes dragging over the dirt and arms hooked around the chains, and watched the stranger wandering through the cemetery. </p>
<p>	He was a tall teenager, with sandy hair and an oversized leather jacket, beat up boots that looked like they belonged to a grownup rather than someone just a few years older than Max himself. Then again, the boy looked pretty grown up. Big. Shoulders as wide as his dads and big hands. </p>
<p>	Max had seen him around town over the last couple weeks. Sometimes with a skinny younger boy but usually alone. He’d spotted him mowing old lady Traegers lawn a couple times and driving a big black car that rumbled so low and heavy it made Max’s bones jitter. </p>
<p>	Scraping the toe of his sneaker on the ground until he stopped swinging, Max sighed. </p>
<p>	He wondered what the guy was doing in the cemetery, whether he was some drug dealer or something. But it wasn’t Max’s problem. </p>
<p>	Hopping off the swing, Max grabbed his backpack and hugged it against his chest as he started off. He was supposed to be home by seven in time for dinner, but his feet were dragging. He couldn’t seem to make them hurry and wasn’t inclined to try too hard. His back hurt. His shoulder too. </p>
<p>	It wasn’t too bad though. Not until he ran headfirst into something rock-solid and deliberately braced for the collision. </p>
<p>	Hank Dawson and his trio of nitwitted friends laughed as Max flailed to keep his feet, dropping his bag directly on the toes of his left foot. He bit back a yelp because it would only make them laugh harder, and really, it wasn’t even that painful in the grand scheme of things. </p>
<p>	“Well, if it isn’t little Missy Miller.”</p>
<p>	Max stared at the pack on the ground, split open and spilling pencils and loose papers with half done homework and just felt tired. Could only think about how much he didn’t want to bend over, didn’t want to pick it up. He’d picked it up so many times today he was just… so tired. </p>
<p>	“Hey!” Hank snapped, and the shove wasn’t a surprise. Max just let himself rock with it, back and then forward right into Hanks big stupid paws. The guy was only a grade above him, but he’d been held back a year on top of that. “Stop spacing out like some druggie creep. Or are you a junkie? People keep finding needles in the graveyard, maybe that’s you.”</p>
<p>	“Yeah!” One of the hangers-on piped up enthusiastically, completely with fist pumping towards the sky. “Maybe we should call the cops!”</p>
<p>	There was a general chorus of agreement all around and Hank snickered, the sound mean and hissing and generally unpleasant. Max just drooped in his hold, shirt pulling tight tight tight around his shoulder and his back.</p>
<p>	To be fair, he was spacing out. It was happening more and more often now, just drifting, not a thought or a feeling in sight. It was usually the nicest part of his day. </p>
<p>	“Maybe we should just—“</p>
<p>	“Isn't it after curfew for you kids?”</p>
<p>	The voice was gravelly but not quite deep. There was a sneer to it that caught Max’s attention and he let his head loll back further in order to see. </p>
<p>	It was the teenager. He looked both more and less intimidating up close; less because it was more obvious that he was, in fact, a teenager and therefore young. More, because all that youth just made the sheer muscle and hulking menace even more obvious and disturbing. </p>
<p>	Hank sputtered, hands flexing in the collar of Max’s shirt. Not used to being interrupted, much less by someone like THAT. </p>
<p>	“Buzz off,” he eventually managed as he pitched his voice lower in some poorly thought out attempt at self defense. </p>
<p>	“Yeah!” The enthusiastic one piped up again. Though not quite so loudly. “Buzz off!”</p>
<p>	The teenager eased back on his heels in a slouch. Even Hank could tell the gesture was not meant to be reassuring. </p>
<p>	“Now, see, I’m not going to be doin’ that,” he drawled. “Consider this an intervention by a concerned citizen.”</p>
<p>	Hanks grip loosened even more until Maxs shirt slipped from his fingers completely. The slimy dead leaves on the sidewalk squished under his foot as he stumbled back a step, almost into the body behind him before he jerked to the side. </p>
<p>	He hugged his arms around himself, fingers tucking into his sleeves as he looked uneasily between Hank and the new guy. Neither of them seemed interested him anymore. Thankfully. They were too busy eyeballing each other in some sort of standoff. </p>
<p>	The teenager quirked a brow. “You really want to mess with me, kid? Scram.”</p>
<p>	“Fine!” Hank yelled. He kicked the pencil case by his foot, glared at Max and then stomped back the way he’d come, shouldering through his confused posse. “Whatever, not like we want to waste time on the freak anyway. Come on guys!”</p>
<p>	Max watched them jog away until they turned the corner. Then, watching the strange guy from the corner of his eye, slowly lowered down to his knees and started scraping all his stuff into a pile. Dead leaves and damp were already stuck to it all and he hated it, hated how the cold immediately stuck to his skin like glue. </p>
<p>	“Dickheads,” the teenager muttered and squatted down next to him. </p>
<p>	Max tensed, hand freezing on a pencil pocked and worn down eraser. He didn’t know what the boy wanted with him, didn’t know how he was supposed to stop him if it was something really bad. He was too tired and no one on this street would hear him if he screamed. Or they wouldn’t care. </p>
<p>	Not for the first time he wondered if this was it. If this was one of those pervert predators that Alice always warned him about. The ones that would appear out of nowhere with candy or chloroform and cart him away, never to be seen again. The kind she said wouldn’t bother him as long as he listened to her and dad, didn’t cause any trouble or stay out late. </p>
<p>	He shifted his hand slowly from the eraser to for sharpened pencil. </p>
<p>	Fighting back had never done anything good for him before but he wasn’t about to stop yet. </p>
<p>	But those big hands didn’t reach for him or into a pocket for something to keep him quiet. Instead they scooped up his papers, brushing off leaf litter and bits of mud as they were shuffled quickly into a neat pile. </p>
<p>	“You okay, short stack?”</p>
<p>	Max glanced quickly over, eyes darting. The guy had a bruised jaw, the remainders of a split lip and hazy green eyes. Like looking up from the bottom of tree with the sun shining through the leaves. Nice eyes, for all there were big old bags under them. </p>
<p>	He nodded. </p>
<p>	“You sure? Lookin’ a little peaky to me.”</p>
<p>	“Just my normal face,” Max mumbled. Most of his stuff was already put neatly back in his backpack, way quicker than he could have done it. He felt kind of stupid, kneeling on the ground clutching a pencil.</p>
<p>	The boy laughed and zipped up the backpack, rocking smoothly back on his heels and then standing up. “No kidding? Sucks to be you then.”</p>
<p>	“You don’t look so great either,” Max muttered. His tongue twisted on the last word as he tried to swallow it all back, every muscle in his body pulling tight. By now he didn’t think the boy was going to hit him, but his sass tended to bring out the worst in people. The hand suddenly appearing right in front of his face wasn’t very reassuring either. </p>
<p>	Heart taking the place of all the words he’d just let out his mouth, Max tucked his arms in tight and leaned away, staring up the lengths of the guys long (scary) arm. </p>
<p>	“Come on.” The guy waggled his fingers. “Up you get. ‘less you like it down there.”</p>
<p>	Max leaned even further back and got up by himself. Took a few scooting steps back, leaf mush sliding slimy underfoot. The guy scoffed. </p>
<p>	“Sure, be that way then.” He didn’t look angry though. Didn’t look insulted or like he was gonna haul back and put Max in his place. “You good?”</p>
<p>	Max nodded mutely. Slowly, he held out his hands for his stuff and was only a little surprised when it was immediately handed over. This time he looped one arm through a strap before hugging it against his chest. </p>
<p>	Should he say thanks or something? That was what you were supposed to do, when someone stuck up for you. At least according to the movies and Alice. But both of those things weren’t really set in reality all the time, so…</p>
<p>	He stared upwards, at the guys green eyes, the freckles interspersed with mild acne and a bruise peeking out from the hair by his ear. </p>
<p>	The guy stared back. </p>
<p>	Well. Not like it really mattered, Max thought, and mumbled something vaguely grateful as he put his eyes back on the sidewalk and started walking. Not like he’d talk to the guy again. </p>
<p>	Wind tore down the street, cutting through his jacket and dragging at his hair. He wished he’d worn his hat. Even if it did make him look even dorkier. He didn’t like the cold. Didn’t like the way it stuck around for so long, settled into his bones and kept him cold no matter how much he tired to get warm. </p>
<p>	Maybe Alice had cooked something good. Soup, maybe, that tomato kind his dad hated, with the little green bits floating in it. He knew you could get it out of a can but it tasted better when Alice cooked it. He clutched the backpack tighter as his stomach growled. </p>
<p>	“You okay, little dude?”</p>
<p>	Max squeaked, a zing shooting up his back. It felt like a cartoon, for a second, like his hair was sticking up on end. He jerked around to find the guy behind him, hands linked behind his head as he walked. </p>
<p>	Max swallowed heavily and finally felt afraid. He hadn’t heard the guy following him, not once. And with those heavy boots, he should have. </p>
<p>	“Why’re you following me?” He mumbled, face buried in stinky, wet nylon. His fingertips ached as he dug his nails in. </p>
<p>	“Just making sure those dic— uh, dingbats don’t come back. I can walk you a ways, kick their asses.”</p>
<p>	Max shook his head. “They won’t follow me.”</p>
<p>	And even if they did, what business was it of this guy? Maybe he really was a pervert stalker. Maybe Max really was gonna be a statistic, dead and rolled into a ditch by the road. </p>
<p>	“Eh, no reason to chance it. Looks like we’re headin’ the same way anyway.” He grinned. It was a nice one. Too big and too nice. “My names Dean. Whats yours?”</p>
<p>	Max knew better than to tell him. Really, he did. But he found his mouth opening anyway. “Max.”</p>
<p>	“Max,” Dean repeated. The grin became a little less intimidating and Max looked away. </p>
<p>	He started walking again, cause he needed to get home it wasn’t like he could outrun someone with legs so much longer. </p>
<p>	“Those guys bother you a lot?” Dean asked. When Max just shrugged, he hummed thoughtfully. “You’re tiny, so next time just aim straight. Get him right in the balls.”</p>
<p>	“I’d get in trouble,” Max said. He always did, when he tried to get them to leave him alone. When he’d bitten Hank two years ago to get out of a swirlie his dad had hit him with a belt for the first time. Said if he acted like an animal he was gonna train him up like one.</p>
<p>	Still kind of worth it though. He’d never thought Hank could scream so high. </p>
<p>	“Well sometimes you gotta takes some licks if you want to get any in yourself. Assholes like that need taking down a notch, every now and again. Otherwise they’ll just get worse.”</p>
<p>	“They’re not too bad.” And they really weren’t. Getting stuck in lockers and garbage cans and toilets and sometimes getting a black eyes wasn’t much compared to his dad. To his uncle. Kids were nothing compared to that. </p>
<p>	The sun was sinking lower and Max hurried a little faster. If he was lucky he’d get back before his dad and be able to hide in his room til dinner. By the time his block was in sight his shoulder was hurting even worse and the fact Dean was still following him was not scary anymore. Especially when he realized that was his dads car sitting out in the street. </p>
<p>	Home on time for once, he thought with dread. </p>
<p>	Dean whistled. “Daaaamn. She’s a pretty one.”</p>
<p>	It was pretty. 1970 Plymouth barracuda, shiny black and sleek. Alice would complain sometimes that his dad loved that car more than he did her. Sometimes Max agreed. </p>
<p>	Now that there was no reason to hurry, Max stopped under a tree and angled a look at Deans boots. They really were beat up, all stained, and the laces of one were obviously newer than the other. </p>
<p>	“You can go now,” he said to the boots. </p>
<p>	“Yeah? This your street?” Dean looked back over his shoulder at the signs, taking note, and Max wanted to squirm the way his stomach was. It was weird. Dean was weird. And having a stranger know where he lived had never bothered him before, but no other stranger had followed him and seemed to memorize his street….</p>
<p>	And, irrationally, he didn’t like that Dean liked his dads car. Didn’t like the association it made between them.</p>
<p>	“Go away,” he whispered. “I don’t know you and I’m not supposed to tell strangers where I live.”</p>
<p>	“Yeah, okay. Thats good.” Dean tucked his hands in his pockets and, with a last admiring look at the Barracuda, starting walking away. “Remember; go for the nuts. Ain’t no one going give you grief after a nutshot.”</p>
<p>	This time Max watched until Dean turned the corner. And then he waited for a few more minutes, just to be sure, before crossing the street and dragging himself up the steep front lawn. </p>
<p>	Music was playing inside. Sinatra, turned down low and wafting from the kitchen. The sounds from the television in the living room was much louder, as were the sounds of his dad and uncle Roger, laughing and talking over the commercial playing. </p>
<p>	The entryway was dark, the light turned out. To the left was the tiny dining room, to the right the living room and directly ahead the stairs. To get to the stairs he’d have to walk in front of the living room and the couch was just across from the door. No way his dad would miss him walking back. And even if he did, Uncle Roger would catch him. </p>
<p>	They were good at that. Filling each others blind spots. </p>
<p>	He wanted to go up to his room but Max went to the left, skirting the dining table and stepping into the kitchen. </p>
<p>	Alice was at the stove, humming and swaying to the crooning coming from the radio. She had her hair fixed up with a clip and her little pearl earrings seemed to glow in the reflected light off the vent hood. She was wearing shoes like she always did, even in the house, leather pumps with green heels. </p>
<p>	She was beautiful. Sometimes Max wondered if his mom had been that beautiful. Considering how his dad always sneered when he said he looked like her, he doubted it. </p>
<p>	“I’m back,” he called quietly. </p>
<p>	“Oh!” The spoon scraped the bottom of the pan she was stirring and she spun around, hand on her chest. “Oh, Max, you startled me!”</p>
<p>	“Sorry,” he mumbled. Keeping half an eye on her because she sometimes got in a fussy mood, he slowly put his backpack on the floor and took off his jacket, draping it over the top. When she didn’t tut at him he relaxed and slipped off his shoes too. He’d need to come back later and take everything upstairs. </p>
<p>	“You’re filthy,” she sighed. “Wash up, okay?”</p>
<p>	Gladly. Max didn’t care for being dirty. Uncle Roger used to call him a pussy for that, for crying when he fell in the mud or got his hands all dirty holding their tools. He still called him a pussy, but it was for others things now. </p>
<p>	The faucet sputtered when he turned it on and Alice sighed again. </p>
<p>	“This darn plumbing. I can’t stand it, really!” She went back to stirring, pushing ground beef around the pan. “This is a lovely neighborhood, of course, and I know how much this house means to Jim. A family home is important, after all. But everything is so old here!” </p>
<p>	Max listened to her chatter as he washed his hands, the soap stinging the scuffed up skin on the side of his hand that he hadn't even noticed before. </p>
<p>	“Those new builds across town look so nice.” She paused for a moment to stare dreamily at the vent hood. “I heard they were putting in marble countertops. Marble! Can you believe it?”</p>
<p>	Max shrugged. He knew how much she wanted a nicer house. In the living room and kitchen were neat stacks of Better Homes &amp; Garden and Vanity Fair magazines. He’d seen all the notes on the edges of the pages, the circles drawn around photos of things like curtains and chrome faucets and bidets.</p>
<p>	He’d also seen all the baby and mother magazines, hidden at the bottom of the piles. </p>
<p>	She didn’t let people see them much anymore. </p>
<p>	“Would you set the table please? Roger is staying for dinner, so make sure its for four, alright?”</p>
<p>	Max nodded. </p>
<p>	He got out the second best china and carried it into the dining room. The heirloom oak table set had come with Alice when his dad married her; apparently it had been her grandmothers. Every other week she would polish and wax it, and switch out the table clothe every day. Max made sure to set the plates down as silently as possible. He glanced at the door and listened to the TV for a moment before going back to the kitchen for silverware. </p>
<p>	Alice hummed along to the radio as she worked and within a few minutes everything was transferred into the dining room. Max peered into the bowl of goulash and drooped a little; peppers again. They always made his stomach upset. </p>
<p>	He slipped into his chair as Alice tapped her way out to get his dad and Roger. He listened to the muffled sound of the voices and the TV turning off. The silence had his shoulders climbing up towards his ears even as he poured himself a glass of iced tea. </p>
<p>	His dad was still in his mechanics coveralls, the top half loose and tied around his waist and a bandana hanging from his pocket. Roger had at least changed and was wearing a clean shirt. That was good, meant he was probably going out for the night. </p>
<p>	Everything was always worse when his dad and Roger were together. </p>
<p>	“Looks good, honey,” his dad said, and leaned out of his chair to kiss her cheek. She smiled and blushed, swatting softly at him. </p>
<p>	It was always strange to see them together. To see his dad act in such a way when he had never thought he could. He liked to think it was how things had been when his mom was alive. When his dad was still happy. </p>
<p>	“Would you like to say grace or should I?” She asked, hands palm up on the table and angled towards his dad on one side and Max on the other. </p>
<p>	Roger snorted quietly and Alice’s smile wobbled slightly until his dad squeezed her hand. </p>
<p>	“Why don’t you do it tonight?”</p>
<p>	“Alright.” </p>
<p>	Max dutifully let her take his hand but didn’t even bother holding his other one out to Roger or his dad across the table. Roger was already drinking another beer and watching the proceedings with amusement. </p>
<p>	It was a standard prayer that Max had heard a hundred times at a lot of different tables. Was in the book of children’s prayers on his bookshelf, even. It was over too soon. </p>
<p>	“So what’s up, compadre? Looking pretty rough there.” Rogers voice was upbeat and friendly but Max could hear the meanness underneath it. He always could. </p>
<p>	Max dragged the tines of his fork through the sauce, making four skinny little furrows that disappeared almost as soon as they formed and shrugged. </p>
<p>	“Ah, cmon. Tell us. Can’t talk? Took a few too many balls to the head in gym? Thats what happens when you act like a fucking pansy.”</p>
<p>	“Roger, language,” Alice said softly. </p>
<p>	“Sorry, sorry. But c’mon, look at him.” A piece of ground beef flew across the table and bounced off Mats head. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy.”</p>
<p>	Max did. </p>
<p>	Roger was drunker than he’d thought. Face red and slimy shiny with sweat, one eye pink with burst vessels. It was hard to keep looking when he knew that was the face that meant trouble. </p>
<p>	“School was fine,” he mumbled and kept his gaze steady. Not that it stayed that way.</p>
<p>	Roger laughed and lunged suddenly halfway across the table, hand raised. Max flinched and it only made Roger laugh harder, his big, sweat moist hand thumping on Max’s head and scrubbing through his hair. It hurt, a little, and rocked him hard from side to side. His skin prickled like it was zapped with static but it was better than being hit. Most things were better than being hit. </p>
<p>	“Fine, huh? Right.”</p>
<p>	“Shut up,” his dad said.</p>
<p>	Roger settled back with his hands held up and a big grin on his face. “Sorry, sorry. Can’t help it.”</p>
<p>	Max stared at his plate. His stomach rolled over and over the longer he looked at it, the food looking less and less like something edible and more like something alien until he had to close his eyes. The fork clattered on the edge of the plate as it slipped out of his hands. </p>
<p>	“Oh, the plate,” Alice said softly.</p>
<p>	The table shuddered barely a second later and Max ducked his head lower. </p>
<p>	Not that it would help. </p>
<p>	His dads footsteps as he rounded the table were heavier than a hammer fall and shook up Max’s legs. Or maybe he was just shaking in general. </p>
<p>	He didn’t look up when his dads hot hand closed around the back of his seat. Didn’t look up when Roger laughed, like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all week. And he closed his eyes entirely when his dad starting pulling him up the stairs. </p>
<p>	At least he would only be missing goulash.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This will be updating very, very sporadically. Please let me know if I need to add tags, or raise the rating. I'm going to keep the abuse as off-screen as possible, and there will be none of.... THAT kind of abuse. Just FYI</p>
<p>Comment if you are so inclined, and have a good day!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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